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Full text of "The Letters Of Horace Walpole Vol I"

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And Kitten, if the Humour hit, Has Harlequin'd away the fit. Since Mirth is good on this behalf At some partic'lars let us laugh.
*         *          *         *
Poor Authors worshipping a calf, Deep Tragedies that make us laugh; Folks Things Prophetic to dispense, Making the Past the future Tense. Disdainfull Prudes, who ceaseless ply The superb muscle of an Eye: A Coquet's April-weather Face, &c.
Hunting I reckon very good To brace the nerves and stirr the blood; But after no field Honours itch Atcheived by leaping Hedge and Ditch ; While spleen lies soft relax'd in Bed, Or o'er Coal Fires reclines the Head. Hygeia's sons with Hound and Horn, And social ciy awake the Morn: These see Her in Her dusky plight, Smear'd by th' Embraces of the Night, With roral wash redeem her face And [pr]ove* Herself of Titan's race, And mounting in loose robe the Skies, Shed Light and Fragrance as she flies.
Sometimes I dress; with women sit, and chat away the gloomy fit;
Quit the stiff garb of serious sense, and wear a gay impertinence.
Nor think nor speak with any pains, but lay on fancy's neck the reins;
Talk of unusual Swell of Waiste, in maid of honour loosely lac'd;
Of Kitty (Aunt left in the lurch by grave pretence to go to Church)
Perceiv'd in Hack with Lover fine, like Will and Mary on the coin, &c.
* MS. torn.